There's a specific kind of melancholy that sets in on a late summer afternoon. The air, thick with the promise of rain, carries the scent of dying leaves and damp earth. It's a wistful kind of sadness, the kind that makes you want to dig out an old sweater and curl up with a book you loved as a teenager. It's the feeling I get, every time, listening to Taylor Swift's folklore and evermore.
These sister albums, born in the solitary months of the pandemic, are awash in this particular brand of nostalgia. Not the shiny, Instagram-filtered kind, but something deeper, more elemental. It's the nostalgia of girlhood, of fairytales whispered in the dark and secrets shared in treehouses. A time when the world felt vast and unknown, full of both magic and menace.
Swift, never one to shy away from introspection, dives headfirst into these murky waters. The songs on folklore and evermore are populated by ghosts, both literal and figurative. There's the spectral presence of lost loves, like the heartbroken narrator of "my tears ricochet" and the ghostly lover in "invisible string." But there are also the ghosts of past selves, the echoes of childhood dreams and adolescent heartaches.
What's striking about these albums is the way Swift uses setting to evoke these complex emotions. Gone are the stadium-sized anthems of her previous work. In their place are intimate, intricately crafted soundscapes. Acoustic guitars weave around delicate piano melodies, creating a sense of fragile beauty that perfectly mirrors the vulnerability of the lyrics.
And then there are the landscapes. folklore and evermore are albums rooted in nature, specifically the kind of wild, untamed nature that feels both alluring and slightly dangerous. We find ourselves wandering through "ivy-covered bridges" and "ancient, whispering pines." We encounter "windswept beaches" and "misty mountain tops." These aren't just backdrops for the songs; they're characters in their own right, shaping the mood and adding layers of meaning.
I remember, years ago, spending summers in a creaky old farmhouse in Vermont. The days were long and languid, filled with the smell of pine needles and the sound of crickets chirping. At night, the stars were so bright they felt close enough to touch. It was the kind of place that got under your skin, that stayed with you long after you left. Listening to folklore and evermore takes me right back to that place, to that time in my life when everything felt possible and heartbreak felt like the end of the world.
But these albums aren't just about looking back. There's a sense of growth and resilience here too. Swift's narrators, though haunted by the past, are ultimately moving forward. They're learning to make peace with their ghosts, to find beauty in the ruins. In "happiness," she sings, "There'll be happiness after you / But there was happiness because of you / Both of these things can be true." It's a powerful reminder that even in the face of loss, there's always hope for healing and renewal.
And that, perhaps, is the ultimate triumph of folklore and evermore. These albums, born out of a time of global uncertainty and personal reflection, offer a kind of solace that feels both timeless and deeply personal. They remind us that even in the darkest of times, there's beauty to be found in the natural world, in the memories we hold dear, and in the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and who we want to become.
They are albums to get lost in, to cry to, to find yourself in. They are, in short, everything we've come to expect from Taylor Swift at her most raw, honest, and undeniably brilliant.
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